Time and Change
by Goth Jedi
Summary: He is sixteen when he leaves Mindoir. More than a boy, but not quite a man. But as he sits in the bunker of the Alliance cruiser, he only feels like a boy. Colonist!Shepard post Mindoir Raid and beyond.


He is sixteen when he leaves Mindoir.

More than a boy, but not quite a man.

The faintest plucks of stubble decorate his face, fairly obscure bumps that peak from his cheeks and the tip of his chin. A poignant glint flickers in the pair of sapphires that hang below his brow, but the light has begun to fade within them and blend into the recesses of their azure surroundings. His body is long and thin, lithe and agile, but the tale-tale signs of growing muscle run across his chest and climb up his arms and shoulders. He is an awkward commodity- a body ravaged by reaction and release, a specimen of conversion and maturity. His childhood leaves him and he is slowly becoming a man.

But as he sits in the bunker of the Alliance cruiser- the lights around him soft and dull, the steady hum of the warp engine low and somber- he only feels like a boy.

He sits upon the bunk with his back against the wall, knees pulled tight to his chest, mouth obscured by his forearms. He is clothed in issued Alliance wear, a generic black and blue uniform that the lowest of crewmen wear, the only articles of clothing available for his immediate needs. While they certainly are an improvement to the dismal rags that had clung to his body a few hours prior, his new garments leave much to be desired. They hang slightly loose upon his frame, the size too large for his underdeveloped physique, and they scratch irritably against his skin. The boots upon his feet possess an uncomfortable amount of free space within them, and it takes great effort for him to walk with a conventional stride. With every passing second the discomfort of the uniform grows more and more, and he is sorely tempted to rip the threads right off his limbs. The garments were tailored for a soldier, strong and powerful, broad and muscular, not a poor farm boy.

He will eventually have his wish once the Alliance arrives at their nearest station and depart his company, however, and he will waste no time in stripping his slack and abrasive attire clean off his body and into the nearest waste bin.

But that won't change anything.

Nothing will.

And nothing will be the same.

The raw gash that throbs below his eye and through the corner of his lips is a reminder of that.

The urge to touch the newly dressed wound lingers moderately over his mind, but, in truth, there is no need for that. The pain itself- searing and agonizing, as though the knife were still in-lodged in his flesh- is more than enough to alert him to its presence. Having tangible verification won't diminish its penetrating ache, won't bring a semblance of understanding to his mind.

It won't change anything.

He can still hear the thunder of crushing bullets, the screaming whistles as they pierced the air and flew from everywhere and nowhere. The smell of pungent smoke and acrid copper linger tauntingly over his olfactory glands, and he can almost taste the bitter particles upon his tongue. And he sees their faces- stark and frozen, eyes vacant and as dim as a creeping shadow, pools of scarlet stained atop their flesh- and his heart constricts and his eyes begin to swell.

Their faces, forever petrified in passive gazes, as he stood before their sopping limbs, wretched with helplessness. He can still see the visage of his father, a man so tall and strong, whose confidence shown like a beacon amid the blackest of nights, reduced to a small, pitiful pile of tangled limbs and broken bones. And his mother, a woman with a scarce-like beauty, who carried an elegance and grace about her that could have rivaled and surpassed the finest of ballerinas, slaughtered like a pig in the filth and muck.

And he sees their faces- those _things_ \- as they stood above the repugnant remains of his parents, their leers trained upon his exposed form and their weapons readied to increase their toll to three. All twelve of those beady black eyes- four on each brute- fixed on him, locked on him, the flickers of excitement whirling madly within their ceaseless pits. Their drooping mouths- hideous like grotesque, malformed dogs- bore sneers upon them, grave and penetrating, reflecting their thoughts like a flaring beacon. Their voices deep like a crackle of thunder, they spoke contemptuous words and held no pity for a young boy, and with no scarcity of hesitance, marked him like a slit beast.

The knife had been wielded by a skilled hand, as the incision was precise and deliberate, like a butcher preparing a prized cattle on the cutting board. The searing pang that followed in the blade's stead was unbearable, scorching and raw as his nerves were torn and ripped and ruptured, and he can still feel the singeing torrents of blood fly down and off his face. And he can hear that- _thing's-_ labored grunts, can smell the stench secreted from its repulsive flesh, can see its hideous black eyes and mocking simper, and the hold about his heart clenches painfully within his chest and the grip upon his knees tightens into iron.

The throbbing of his wound feels heavier- deeper- _fiercer_ \- and he knows what wasn't done, what could have been done.

What should have been done.

He can see that swine's eyes burst from their sockets, can see himself slitting its throat, his hands constricted around its greasy neck as blood gushed between his fingers and up his wrists. To see that pig squirm and choke on its own fluids, hear the scratchy gulps and gasps at its futile attempts to steal air into its lungs. To taste its blood upon his tongue, to smell its caustic stench, to see its body twist and strain until the last, worthless second. And he would revel in the pathetic glint in its eyes, the realization- the _fear_ \- that would reflect back at his menacing gaze, and he would watch as the pitiful creature gasped and cried and shrieked with-

"Hey kid, you doing alright?"

His gaze does not shift to the voice at the threshold of the bunker. His body remains curled onto itself, tense and obstinate, ignoring the soft inquiry.

The soldier stands at the entryway, a member of the Alliance cruiser that had ( _ **unsuccessfully**_ _)_ drove those beasts out and away from Mindoir. No doubt the man is here to offer console and pity to him, gifts crafted from obligation and wrapped in habitual duty. He suspects he will be receiving the same gifts several times in the coming months and dreads the thought of it. No matter how many compelled condolences are thrust upon him, no matter how many sweetly steeped words are reaped for his benefit, they won't undo what has occurred, won't ease the sting that poisons his mind and punctures his heart.

They won't change anything.

The silence that lingers is palpable, yet welcoming, but the underlay of its inevitable destruction hangs bitterly in the crisp, artificial air. Perhaps recognizing his question will remain unrequited, the soldier steps into the room and beside the bunk, his footsteps unusually soft for a hardened veteran.

"Mind if I have a seat?"

Again a question is posed and again it remains unanswered.

A light sigh escapes the man's lips- so quiet the boy almost misses it- but he still continues to disregard the soldier with the same indifference. Just as before, the man sees right to intrude upon his silent declinations and proceeds to sit on the bunk opposite him.

The face that meets his inflexible glare is not the ravaged and war-torn visage he expected; no scars are carved into his face, no trauma perceptible in the creases of his brow. Rather, he looks upon a young countenance, clean shaven and smooth. His fair hair is neatly cropped- not a strand out of place- and his uniform, identical to the one the boy currently wears, clings to his frame in a most impressive manner. He is, in many respects, the seamless image of an Alliance soldier, strong and fit, striking and inspiring. Yet, there is a peculiar flicker in his eyes, a certain weariness that contrasts his vigorous physique. It is a blemish on an otherwise flawless slate, an anomaly that shouldn't be present, yet lingers.

The man offers him a small smile, an upturn of the lips that crinkles his nose and brings prominence to the dimples on his cheeks. It is not returned.

"Sorry. I just need to check on you, that's all," the man informs him, imparting him a slight shrug before adding, "Captain's orders."

The soldier's voice is laced with an accent he is unfamiliar with, one crisp and precise, yet harsh and spoken from the back of the throat. It carries a certain strength to it- an air inundated by the man's ardent inflection- and no doubt it will serve him well when he is a captain with charges under his care. But the boy remains unimpressed, his brows furrowed and eyes dim with an unspoken ire.

Another pause of silence settles between them. Agitation creeps steadily into the boy's thoughts, its tentacles slithering perpetually within his mind. His unyielding gaze dares the man to resume with his unwanted prodding, a warning cold and venomous like a cobra preparing to strike, and yet the soldier takes no head of it and fixes him with another smile, his eyes drifting from the top of the boy's head to the tips of his boots.

"You look good in the uniform. You have the look, that's for sure," the man says with a chuckle. "Who knows? Maybe in a couple of years, we'll be standing together, side by side, doing humanity some good in the galaxy."

The man's words bring no comfort to him. They sting at him like glass rubbing against a raw wound. Subtle fury seeps into his heart- a virus that spreads throughout his body with every beat of the pumping muscle- and the walls encompassing him are suddenly slight and suffocating.

This ship and its cold air- its closed quarters and aggravating crew- the incensing garments that droop off his frame and scrape against his skin- the vacant walls and lifeless silence that pervades every nook and corner, object and man, and smothers him in its cruel waves, drowning him, drowning him, drowning him- and his wound must be aggravated, open and bleeding, because his face feels on _fire_ , searing and blazing- and his eyes begin to blur and swell with prickles of water- and all he wants- no, _needs-_ is for this insufferable man to be far and away, out of sight and mind, but that's wrong, it's not the man that must leave, _no,_ it's not, it's, it's-

This is not Mindoir.

This is not warmth, this is not comfort.

This is not home.

And it never will be.

He can never go back to the quiet, quaint life of a farm boy, of calm and tranquil nights, of eventful, fulfilling mornings.

He can never go back to his friends, who frolicked and teased him, supported and loved him.

He will never see his parents again, never feel the fulsome pat of his father's hand upon his shoulder, never know the tender, soothing embrace of his mother. He will never see their smiles, never hear their laughter, never share his thoughts with them and they with him, he will never feel their love upon his heart.

He is alone now, and nothing will change that.

The tears that ram against his eyes loom ever closer to trickling down his cheeks, but they never do; they lay suspended on edge as he struggles to remain the stoic, unmoving visage he had presented himself to be.

The soldier apparently realizes his mistake and withdraws from his next act. The smile fades from his face and his gaze lowers from the boy's arched form to the cool safety of the floor.

"Are you hungry? I can get you some food, if you want," the man says softly, as though any louder pitch would shatter the boy into millions of pieces.

His tears- now thick and burning- weigh heavily upon his eyes, and all the boy can do is close them in the hopes that they will fail to spill. He nuzzles his nose against his forearms and draws himself tighter into himself, hoping beyond hoping that the man will finally leave him to his sorrow.

Again, silence pervades the air.

One moment, two moments pass.

Finally, a long, deep sigh penetrates the unspoken barrier. He does not see it, but the boy can feel the heavy gaze of cobalt bear upon his form. His eyes remain closed, silently willing the soldier away. The agitation of before has festered into full-blown resentment, and it takes more than an effort to restrain himself from lashing out at the man. He can feel an apology prepare itself on the tip of the man's tongue and he knows his words will only spurn his already roused grief to extraordinary levels. With little else to do, he readies himself for the worthless words to be thrust upon him.

Another pause, and then the soldier speaks.

"I know what you're going through is tough, and I know there's nothing anyone can say or do that will make it better," he begins. Sympathy is evident in his tone, yet it possesses a hardness to it, a roughness coiled with the throes of exhaustion. The boy opens his eyes to see the man's face as tired as his voice, his brows furrowed slightly, lips thin in a consenting frown. The weariness he had seen in the man's eyes now correspond perfectly with his drained image, and only now does he truly realize the sadness that must reside under the soldier's exterior. "I'm not going to lie to you: it's not going to get better and it's not going to get easier. Things will never return to normal and every day will be a struggle."

He pauses briefly, presumably contemplating his next choice of words. The man's eyes- carrying such sadness within their oceanic waves- bear into his own, and the boy can almost feel a new torrent of bitter tears rise in his eyes. His heart clenches with a twinge of pain and throbs in time with the pulse of his facial gash, and his lower lip- obscured from the soldier's view- begins to tremble ever so slightly. But he forces himself still, refuses to submit to the effects the man's words have on him. Another sigh flees the soldier's lips, but his gaze remains steady on the boy.

"But you have to fight through it. You have to stand strong against it. There will be times when you feel like quitting, when you think you can't go further, when you feel you're beaten and just want it all to end. But you can't give up. You have to pick yourself up and keep fighting. That's what survivors are: they're fighters," the man's eyes sharpen, brighten, "I don't know what will happen in the next few days. I don't know what will happen in the next few months. I don't know what will happen in the years to come and I don't know how hard it will be to fight through it. But whatever comes your way-" the man's lips curve slightly, "I know you will be strong enough to face it."

And with those words, the soldier is gone, leaving only the low hum of the engine in his stead.

The boy's eyes do not follow the fading form of the man, but remain trained on the space he had once occupied. The words spoken swirl perpetually in his mind, but do not settle. A certain truth resides in their emboldening meaning- a ghost apparent in a decrepit chamber- but in the end, they are only words.

They do not ease the anguish that has caged his heart. They cannot mend the throbbing gash that sears his face. They will not return his parents from Death's pitiless sentence.

They won't change anything.

* * *

 _Well, ta-da? Yeah, I had some free time on my hands for once, and thought I'd brush up on my writing a bit. Between that and my major writer's block on my screenplay, I thought some fan fiction was in order. Been on a huge Mass Effect kick lately, had a plot bunny nibbling at my ear, and boom: writing commenced. Can't say I'm 100% satisfied with it (thought it was a bit rushed in places), but it's something, and I suppose that's all that matters haha._

 _Yeah, I figured the telling of Colonist!Shepard's life pre-Alliance has been done to death, but I thought I'd take a crack at it. Plus, I've rarely seen anyone do so convincingly with a male Shepard (no offense to anyone, of course!), and since bro!Shep is my main man and I much prefer him over fem!Shep (I don't hate her, it's just, well, bro!Shep for life!), I was like "Why not?" You can't have too many bro!Shep fics, I tell you!_

 _In addition, I've always found the Colonist background to be the most fascinating origins for Shepard. Essentially, it's the background where he has the best- and most realistic- chance of either overcoming the odds, digging himself out of his rut, and becoming the Paragon we all know and love or succumbing to his sorrow and hatred and becoming the Butcher of Torfan. None of the other backgrounds really offer that to me, and I just love that one variable in Shepard's life ultimately has the power to decide the man he becomes._

 _So yeah, was a great experience to write this. Took a few liberties with the manner in which Shepard's family dies (I do believe he said they were gunned down by an artillery shell?), but I wanted it to be even more personal for him if the Batarians were face-to-face with him when they slaughtered his parents. More angst and crap for the kid, eh? But, as I'm not an all-out expert on Mass Effect and its universe, if there are any mistakes on my part in regards to cannon and the like, please let me know and I'll make the necessary corrections._

 _So, yeah, reviews would be great, so please leave one! While universal praise is all fine and dandy, I really thrive on constructive criticism, so PLEASE don't be afraid to go hard on me. We can't expect to improve if no one is willing to point out our mistakes, so don't hold back! So, yeah, hope you enjoyed it and be sure to leave a comment, fave, PMs, ect. and be sure to tune in for part 2! Thanks!_

 _~ Goth Jedi_


End file.
